Searching For Something Someone
by r4ven3
Summary: An AU story which begins three years and nine months after Ruth has gone into exile, having not come home. That is, 8.1 never happened, and Ruth is still "out there somewhere", and Harry decides it is time he went looking for her. Rated T, apart from Chapter 5, which is M-rated. 7 chapters in all.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Characters belong to Kudos. Story mine.**_

_**Happy 2013 to all. x**_

* * *

"So you're retiring," Malcolm said, his bright eyes seeking some kind of lightness in his friend, and finding none. "I'd say it's about time."

"You and almost everyone else, it seems."

"Almost?"

"I'm still not convinced it's the best thing to be doing. I'm not even fifty-seven, and I'm throwing away my career …... but I know if I don't get out now, I'll end up dead."

"We all end up dead, Harry. That's the only sure thing in this world."

"You know what I mean." Harry's fingers slid up and down the sides of his glass, the amber liquid within holding his attention while he thought about how much to tell his old friend.

"Was it Ros's death that …...?" Malcolm asked.

"Strangely, no. Her death rocked me, but …... no, it wasn't that. Too many young people died on my watch, but it wasn't any of them, really. As you know, my heart hasn't truly been in it since Ruth …... since she left. It's been …..."

"A long time."

"Yes, it's been three years, nine months, and …... eighteen days. I could provide the hours, too, if you wish."

"Not that you're counting."

"Not that I am, no." Harry lifted his head and offered a sad smile. "It was Euan McCabe's funeral that did it for me."

"Wasn't he -?"

"He began working at Six straight out of university. He was two years younger than me. He left a wife, three grown sons, and a granddaughter. He retired a few months back, took his wife to Spain for an extended holiday, to make up for all the time he'd had to spend away from home. At the beginning of their second month away, she got up one morning to find him dead on the bathroom floor. Fifty-four years old, and all he'd done with his life was work for MI-6, and leave his wife to bring up their family alone. Then he had a heart attack and died. He hadn't even had time to enjoy his retirement."

"Now you see why I got out when I did."

"I do, Malcolm. You always were the smart one."

They sat over their drinks in comfortable silence, each gazing around them, but not really seeing the other patrons in the pub.

"What will you do with your retirement?" Malcolm asked at last.

"I'm planning to travel, but it's really just an excuse. I can't keep working – day after day, year after year – without knowing where she is, and if she's …... happy. If she …..."

"Misses you?"

"Yes." Harry stared at Malcolm, suddenly comprehending. "You know something, don't you?"

"I know some of where she's been, yes, but I haven't heard anything for almost a year. She's always been able to contact me, but I have no way of contacting her, not unless she wants me to." Malcolm scratched his upper lip with a finger, contemplating his drink, before he continued speaking. "She asked me to not tell you any of this, and normally I'd respect her wishes, but ….. I've watched you these last three years and all-those-months, and I feel you need to know a few things."

Harry's eyes widened. "You've known all along where she was?"

"No, I haven't. I only heard from her firstly in the very early days, when she was tumbling around Europe, grief-stricken as you were, missing all of us, but mostly missing you, Harry. She missed England and her life, the life she'd left behind. It took her a long time to settle down."

Harry couldn't take his eyes from Malcolm's fingers, which were nervously tapping the table. He rubbed his forehead with his own fingers. "But she settled down?"

"Yes."

"By your reticence, I'm supposing that she settled down _with_ someone."

Malcolm sighed heavily, providing Harry with his answer. "Yes. She settled in Cyprus with a doctor from the hospital in Polis. She seemed happy there. That is why I never told you, Harry."

"I needed to know that, Malcolm. I needed to know she was happy. You've no idea what it was like watching her step on to that tug boat that morning. She looked so small and so vulnerable ….. and so, so sad …... her face was so sad," Harry suddenly covered his face with both his hands, a gesture of pain and frustration and guilt, and then he let his hands slide down until they reached his chin. "And I let her go just like that. I've never regretted anything more."

"I had wondered – at the time, and since – why you didn't go with her. It would have saved you both a lot of heartache."

"I …. I thought about it, but …... we hadn't any time to discuss it, and it would have looked rather suspicious for both she and I to have thrown ourselves in the Thames. Travelling together like that, we would have been a target. I hadn't wanted Ruth to be in danger."

"And you think that having her wandering around the world on her own wasn't dangerous? She was _alone_ in the world, Harry, and you let her go."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His mother would have called it squirming. Malcolm had a knack for honing in on the relevant issues, which was why he had wanted to talk with him. "I know that now," he said. "I'm planning to look for her."

"I thought as much. Do you have a starting point?"

"I thought I might try Polis."

* * *

Six weeks later, Harry Pearce, dressed in light-coloured slacks and a short-sleeved, sky blue shirt, entered the Polis hospital, holding a photograph of Ruth.

"Yes, we knew her," the receptionist said, a ready smile on her face.

"Knew? She's not here any more?"

"Ruth? No, she left suddenly, with no warning. It was a few months ago now. Probably a lover's tiff, but – who knows? We thought she'd settle down with one of our doctors, but …... well, you know how these things are. Do you wish to speak with him? With George? He's having a rostered day off, so I suggest you look for him at the house on the hill beyond the school. I'll show you the way."

It had been much easier than he'd expected. The remoteness of the town and the friendliness of the people meant that they were not as suspicious or as wary as people were back home. They welcomed tourists, rather than scoffing at them. Harry knocked on the front door of the house. It was a beautiful house – a villa – and Ruth had lived there. Somehow, just by standing on the verandah of the house in which she'd once lived, he felt closer to her.

"Size yardim edebilir miyim?" The tall, dark-haired man spoke Turkish – _Can I help you?_

"Yes, I'm English …..."

"Of course," the man said in heavily accented English, his eyebrow raised, and a small smile on his lips. "I can see by your colouring you're not from around here."

"My name's Harry Pearce. I'm ….. here about …... I was told you were …...I need to …..."

"Is this about Ruth?" the man asked bluntly.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"You talk like her. Do all English people stumble over their words in this way? It is your language after all. How can you not speak it with more eloquence? You'd better come in. I can't have you melting on my front doorstep."

So Harry followed him into the cool and dark house, and accepted his offer of a lemonade. They sat at a table under a window overlooking the sea. "This is a beautiful spot," Harry commented. "I can see why Ruth liked it here."

"I'd thought she was happy here, but -" George shrugged his shoulders. After a moment of silence, he continued, "You're him, aren't you?"

Harry looked up to see the other man's dark eyes on him, a look which combined curiosity with contempt. "Him?"

"You're the man who came between she and me. We could have been happy, but for you. I had to wonder why you were not here sooner. I expected you to turn up at any time. I even had a plan for what I would do when you arrived to get her." He smiled to himself. "When I asked her about the times when she'd just drift off in her mind, she told me there was a man back in England, someone she'd left behind, and that I could never replace him in her heart. I've hated you for so long, and now I see you're just a …..." George made sure he had Harry's eye contact before he continued. "I can see you're just a washed up, pathetic old Englishman, with receding hair and an expanding waistline. You must have money, because surely Ruth could not have wanted you for your body. You English," he almost spat the word. "I will never understand you."

"Did you love her?" Harry asked, ignoring the insult, because he knew that everything George had said about him was true – apart from Ruth wanting him for his money. In truth, he had no idea what it was Ruth had seen in him, perhaps loved in him.

"Yes, I loved her, and I looked after her, your woman. If you'd been looking after her properly, then I'd not have had to on your behalf."

Harry gripped his glass with both hands, holding in his rage. This man could still be useful, and the last thing he needed right now was an assault charge against him while he was in a foreign country. "Thank you ….. for looking after her," Harry managed to say, keeping his breathing steady. "I'm here because I'm trying to trace her."

"She didn't go back to England?"

"No. Not as far as I know. I need to know when she left Cyprus, from where, and if possible, her destination. When I have that information, I'll leave you alone, and you'll never hear from me again."

George stood up and opened a laptop at the other end of the table. He tapped a few keys, and then Harry watched as the other man's eyes scanned the screen, the light from the display casting a glow on his otherwise saturnine features. "I have the date she left here, but I don't know how long it was before she flew out. She told me she was heading to Paphos and flying out from there. She left here on October 12th last – it was on one of the afternoon buses - and I have no idea where she was headed. I'd always assumed it would be back to England, and to …... _you_."

George hadn't hidden his contempt for Harry, so he thanked him and left. While he was here, he thought he might take in some of what the island offered.

* * *

"I have some information for you to begin a search, Malcolm. It's not much, but it's a start." Harry had rung Malcolm and given him the same information George had offered.

"What's he like, this George?" Malcolm asked.

"Young-ish, good-looking, very continental, intelligent."

"Everything you're not, then."

"Hang on. I consider myself to be quite intelligent." Harry heard the chuckle from Malcolm down the phone. "You're pulling my leg."

"Quite successfully, too, I'd say. I'll do a search, and then get back to you. It shouldn't take long."

Harry was sitting on the balcony of his hotel room, watching the people still milling around in the square when his phone rang.

"She flew from Paphos to Madrid on October 13th. I've conducted a thorough search for all avenues out of Madrid since, using all the legends I provided for her, but …..."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. If she wanted to stay under the radar, she could have taken a train and paid in cash. She could be anywhere, Harry. She could even be in London. I'm keeping the tracer program running, just in case. If she uses any of the passports she left with, my program will let me know."

"Thank you so much, Malcolm. I owe you."

"All I want is to see the two of you happy, and preferably together. There's far too much pain in the world."

"Yes, there is."

After he asked after Malcolm's mother, Harry rang off, and slid his phone into his trouser pocket. He stood at the balcony rail, watching the activity of the people below him. He sighed heavily. So near, and yet still so far.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews. I was rather overwhelmed. I hope the rest of this story lives up to its promise.**_

* * *

_Home of Malcolm Wynn-Jones – 13 weeks later:_

"I'm sorry about your mother, Malcolm."

"Thank you, Harry. I do miss her, of course, and I'd resisted putting her in a nursing home, but …... it was her suggestion in the end. She seems quite happy there. She's amongst others her own age."

"And you can visit."

"I began by visiting her each day, but now it's only three times a week. She as good as told me to get a life." He smiled across the room at Harry as he placed the tea cosy over the teapot. "She was always telling me that, even when I was a teenager. `Go outside and play with the other children,' she'd say. She thought I spent too much time with my head in a book, and then it was too much time with my head in front of a computer. I fear I may have disappointed her."

"Never, Malcolm. You're a son any mother would be proud of."

Malcolm placed the teapot and two cups and saucers on the dining table under the window, and the men sat on either side of the table, facing one another.

"Thank you for the bottles you brought me. It may take me some time to get through them."

"The whiskey will only improve with age. I'm not trying to make an alcoholic out of you."

"It was very generous, all the same. I hadn't known the Spanish made such drinkable whiskey."

"Pure Malt. I developed a taste for it while I was there. It's not bad. I put a couple of bottles of red in with them, as well."

"English Breakfast seems rather benign by comparison."

"There's nothing wrong with English Breakfast, Malcolm. It won't make you drunk, and it won't slowly kill you. I hear the antioxidants it contains are actually good for you."

"I've heard the same thing," Malcolm said, pouring the tea, and passing the milk jug across the table for Harry. For a few minutes, they each sipped their tea and listened to the distant murmur of traffic. They were, in that moment, two middle-aged Englishmen enjoying a quiet afternoon in one another's company.

"So you didn't find her," Malcolm said, knowing that Harry would want to be discussing Ruth's whereabouts.

"No sign of her. I think I visited every hotel in Madrid, every art gallery, every book shop. The only bite I had was when I found a second-hand book shop in a back street, and went inside, not expecting anything. The guy in there recognised her straight away from the photo I showed him. He said she'd been in there several times a week for a couple of months. He'd even asked her out, but she'd declined. He told me she was very polite about turning him down." Harry smiled across the table at Malcolm. "He said she just stopped coming to the shop. He wasn't sure when, but he thinks he remembers seeing her the week before Christmas, but not since."

"He didn't know where she was planning to go next?"

"I asked him the same thing, but he hadn't had that discussion with her."

"So, we're back at the beginning," Malcolm mused.

"It would seem. I find this to be very …... discouraging. I was sure I'd find her."

"As though you have some kind of sixth sense where she is concerned?"

"Yes, like in the movies. I guess it's just romantic nonsense, though, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't say that. I think it's a joy to find a man of your …... maturity …... prepared to go to such lengths to reconnect with the woman he loves."

"In my head, it seems somewhat desperate ….. and ….. pathetic. An aging man trying to find his lost love."

"It's certainly not pathetic, Harry. Ruth is one woman I'd say is worth the effort you've put into finding her."

Harry put his teacup back in its saucer, and sat back in his chair. "But, you know, Malcolm, I can't give up. There is still some thread, some connection between us, and I can't just allow that to die. I know that she's out there somewhere wondering what I'm doing, and whether I still care for her. I can't let go of that. I have to keep going."

Malcolm nodded, wondering how long it will be before Harry did give up, and how he will keep going in his life should he. He feared that the search for Ruth was the only reason Harry got out of bed of a morning.

"Harry," Malcolm said, still formulating his plan in his head only moments before speaking, "I have a house – a cottage – in Scotland. It's near the east coast, north-east of Dundee. I bought it for my retirement, but until Mum gets …... more settled in the retirement home, I'll not be free to use it, so it's standing empty. I could rent it out, but I can't bring myself to allowing strangers to inhabit my home, my future refuge. I'd like you to have it for as long as you want, or until I'm free to live there – whichever comes first. I don't expect you to pay rent, so long as you pay for your own heating and utilities. You'll be doing me a big favour."

"Malcolm, I couldn't possibly -"

"I've been thinking along these lines for a while, and then you went off looking for Ruth, and so I thought maybe you might find her, and then …..."

"And then you saw that finding her was likely to be impossible – a needle in a haystack."

"No, I saw that you'd done all you can for now, and that in the meantime you need to rest, take some time out. Let someone else do the looking."

Harry looked out the window at the ordered garden – a large expanse of freshly mown lawn surrounded by bedding flowers – a testament to Malcolm's ordered mind. He sighed heavily, knowing deep within himself that Malcolm was right. There had to be a time for searching and a time for resting, and he was in need of a rest, a period of time during which he allowed the world to turn of its own accord, trusting that somewhere, some time, Ruth would come out of hiding, and perhaps be ready to see those who still loved her, and were waiting for her.

Harry left Malcolm's that afternoon with the keys to the cottage in Scotland. There was little keeping him in London, and so he was free to leave within days. All he needed was his clothes, some food and supplies, his dog, his laptop, and twelve hours in which to drive there.

In the meantime, Malcolm knew he had some work to do. He had a plan, and he needed to put it in place without Harry's knowledge. He fossicked around in his phone's address book for the number to ring to put a classified ad in the Times Literary Supplement.

* * *

Five days after Harry had visited Malcolm, he arrived at Malcolm's house in Scotland, tired and drained after being on the road for almost thirteen hours. Pulling up in front of the cottage – more a house than a cottage – Harry was stunned by the beauty of not only the countryside, but of the house itself. It was a substantial building built of brown stone with a grey tiled roof, surrounded by flagstones which gave way to a lawn and trees, all of which created a buffer zone between the house and the surrounding countryside, itself a layered backdrop of rolling hills and copses. Harry was surprised to find a fire burning in the fireplace in the large open plan living area, and when he got upstairs, the queen size bed in the large bedroom at the front of the house was made, and the duvet turned back ready for him to crawl underneath. He seemed to remember Malcolm having mentioned that a retired couple from the nearby village looked after the house in his absence. Harry's only regret as he tumbled into bed, after having unpacked the Range Rover and taken Scarlet for a short walk, was that Ruth wasn't with him to share his enjoyment of this stunningly beautiful place.

* * *

Harry settled into rural life with the ease of a man used to fitting into any situation, no matter how foreign. Weather permitting, he walked Scarlet twice a day, having discovered some walking trails in the first few days he was there. Most of the countryside was farming land, and so not open to walkers. The village was only two thirds of a mile along the road which passed by the house, so he made that journey almost every day. During the first two weeks, he'd struggled up the hill out of the village, his thighs aching with the effort, but after that, he noticed that either the hill was less steep, or else his physical fitness had improved.

While walking Scarlett, Harry had plenty of time in which to think. He'd spoken to Malcolm on the phone twice in the first month he'd spent there, and his friend had intimated that he was still searching for Ruth. Harry knew better than to ask for details. Malcolm had his ways and means, and most of it went over Harry's head anyway. He'd reluctantly embraced technology, but it was not his preferred method of interacting with the world. Harry's private world, the world of his thoughts, was as always filled with thoughts of Ruth. He was beginning to wonder about his love for her, and whether it was his memories of her he loved, or the person herself. He had not seen her or spoken to her for four years and almost five months, and so memories of her was all he had. The emotionally charged last sighting of her as she'd left London on a Thames tog boat had haunted him for much of the time since she'd been gone, and her leaving had affected him in much the same way were she to have died. As much as he longed to see her again, what he was really searching for was a resolution to the dull ache in his chest which he carried with him every moment of every day.

By the end of his first month in Scotland, he'd developed a routine of visiting the local pub a couple of nights a week after dinner, while on Friday nights he'd eat dinner in the pub bistro. It was on one of his Friday night visits to the pub that he met Robert and Torie Meade. He spoke to other people he met in the village during his visits, but he did not welcome any kind of fraternising. Years of having to protect himself from potential dangers had made him wary of others. He had slowly come to know the regular drinkers in the pub, and spoke with them, but had little in common with most of them, so he usually kept to himself. Robert Meade was an Englishman of around his own age who had retired to Scotland, after having left his architectural business in Manchester to his daughter from his first marriage. He and his second wife (much younger than he, Harry had noticed) lived on a substantial property on the other side of the village to Malcolm's house.

"Torie and I are having a dinner party next Friday night," Robert said, one Friday night over a pint, almost two months after Harry had arrived in Scotland. "We're in need of some single men. Torie has a couple of her friends coming up from Edinburgh, and we'd like to show them a good time. Say you'll come, old son. It's not formal or anything. Just a buffet and lots of booze."

As reluctant as he was to attend, put like that, he could hardly refuse. Soon after he arrived at the dinner, he was introduced to the two single friends of Torie's, and to his relief, neither had piqued his interest, and nor were they taken with him. Their conversation was chiefly about celebrities and what celebrities wore, something about which Harry knew nothing at all. He didn't even understand the term, `celebrity'. As he saw it, what is there to celebrate about the shallow and vacuous among us?

It was at around 10.30 that he was standing back, a drink in his hand, watching people interact with one another, when he felt a hand slide down his backside and attempt to reach between his legs. He jerked his body forward, having to remember that this was a Friday night dinner party in rural Scotland, and as such a relatively congenial event. He turned to meet the green eyes of Harriet Simper, another wife of another retired Englishman, both living in relative ease in rural Scotland.

"There, there, Harry," she said. "It's only little old me."

"Christ almighty, Harriet, is that any way to greet someone you barely know?"

She formed her mouth into an exaggerated pout. "But you do know me, Harry, and I'd like to get to know you better. You must know that since his prostate operation Clive is impotent. All I want is some uncomplicated action, is that too much to ask?"

Harry, bored with the discussion, put down his drink and walked away. He sought out his hosts, thanked them for inviting him, and then left, claiming a migraine. This just wasn't his scene at all. He would have been happier had he stayed home, sitting in front of the fire with Scarlet.

On the short drive home, he thought about his encounter with Harriet, and wondered at his own reaction. Many men he'd known in his life would have taken up her offer. He told himself he couldn't because he was not attracted to her, but the truth was that his heart and his body belonged to Ruth, and if he never saw her again for the rest of his life, then there was a high probability of him remaining celibate, however long that was to be. He drove up the hill towards home, wondering if he was just a soft-headed idiot, in love with an image which had only ever resided within his imagination.

Harry turned the Range Rover into the drive, and pulled up in front of the door, right behind a dark blue Suzuki Swift. He got out of his car and walked around the Suzuki, seeing no sign of its owner. Heart beating fast, wishing he'd thought to carry a gun, Harry carefully and quietly put his key in the front door, and opened it. There were no lights on inside the house, but he had left a fire burning in the living area, but that fire should have almost burned down by now.

The first thing he noticed was the fire burning brightly, casting twisted, dancing shadows across the walls. The second thing he noticed was that Scarlet had not run to greet him, and the third thing was the figure of a person sitting on the floor in front of the fire. Harry stood still, his mouth gaping, the door still open behind him.

He then turned quickly and walked back out the door. Once he reached the edge of the porch, he sat down on the steps and put his head in his hands, not knowing whether he wanted to laugh or to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

In the end he neither laughed nor cried.

He sat on the step up to the porch, his head resting on his hands, until he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. _So I'm not seeing things,_ he thought. _I haven't completely lost my mind. It_ is _Ruth, and she's here, with me._

"Come inside, Harry," she said. "It's so cold outside, and I built up the fire for you."

It was only when Scarlet began jumping up and licking his face that he turned to look at her. His Ruth. The woman he had dreamed about for over four years. Four years, six months, eight days, and seventeen hours.

"You're here," was all he could say. After all the romantic speeches he'd prepared during his private moments, after all the lines from poems he'd been prepared to quote when he again saw her,`you're here' was all he could say. He stood up and followed her back into the house, and as he went he turned on a couple of lamps.

Turning to face Ruth, he noticed that her hair was a little longer than she'd worn it before, and it was quite wavy, even curly in parts. He liked her hair that way, and longed to run his fingers through it. He lifted his hand to do so, and then let it drop by his side. Standing only an arm's length apart, they each carefully scrutinised the other. He noticed her eyes wandering over his whole body. She saved her most intense scrutiny for his face, her eyes taking in every line, every scar, and from there she took in his neck, shoulders, arms, hands, chest, stomach, groin, legs, even his feet. He was relieved that he'd dressed well for the dinner party, and he was happy to have lost some weight due to the long walks with Scarlet.

He thought she looked thinner, although that could be the skinny jeans she was wearing, and the tight-fitting thigh-length jumper she wore, which clung to her body, and showed her curves, but with a roll neck collar, he had no view of her neck. He wanted to pull aside the collar of her jumper and gaze at her neck. He wanted to then bury his face in her neck, and kiss her until she begged him to take her upstairs.

"Would you like a tea, Ruth?" he asked, in an effort to bring himself back to reality.

"I'd love one, thank you."

So they sat at the large wooden table in the kitchen area, and sipped their tea and nibbled on digestive biscuits. Awkwardness sat between them like a third person, until Harry decided to deal with the practical issues first.

"There's another decent sized bedroom upstairs that you can use for your bedroom. I believe Malcolm intends using the third bedroom for storage."

"I know. My things are already up there. I saw you took the biggest room."

"I hadn't known you were coming, and anyway, I'm bigger than you, so I need the bigger room." He smiled weakly at her.

"You've lost weight, Harry."

"A little, I think. The walking helps." And after another long pause during which neither spoke. "How long are you staying?"

"I haven't thought about it. Malcolm told me you were here, so I thought we could decide that together."

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you like, Ruth. You know how …..."

"Yes, I do. Malcolm told me you'd retired, and travelled through Europe looking for me. That's very …..."

"Foolish?"

"I was going to say that's very romantic. No-one has ever done anything like that for me before."

"I met George."

"Yes. Malcolm told me."

"Is there anything Malcolm hasn't told you?"

"I'm sure there's a lot he didn't tell me. How was George?"

Harry held his breath, hoping Ruth didn't care too much how George was. "He was angry, I think," he said at last. "Firstly because you left him, and secondly because the man you'd loved and left back in England was such a disappointment to him."

"He said that?"

"As good as. He called me old, overweight, balding and washed up."

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. George can be nasty when he wants to be. It's just verbal sparring to him. It's his favourite game, but he can be cruel. He loves it. He's very clever with words. In the end, I couldn't take it any more."

"Is that why you left?"

"In part. We had a massive argument one evening after Nico had gone to bed, but it wasn't even just that."

"Nico?"

"George's son. He was almost eleven when I left. I loved him like my own child, and I miss him terribly. The argument began when he noticed I was …... in a thoughtful mood. I began to miss England, to miss you, to miss the weather. I never thought I'd miss English weather." She lifted her head to smile at Harry. "It was the familiar things that I missed. He noticed I was lost inside my thoughts, and he said something sarcastic like, `I see you're thinking about that Englishman again.' It was so childish, his jealousy. In my mind, my relationship with him was entirely separate from what you and I had once been to one another. We ended up having a massive argument in which I told him you were ten times the man he'd ever be. Next morning I apologised, but he told me to leave. So I did. I felt such relief once that plane took off from Paphos."

"Was he ever …... violent towards you?" Harry could feel a core of rage towards the petulant George building inside him.

"Only verbally, never physically. Although there were a few times I submitted to his demands …... sexually …... just to keep the peace."

Harry was shocked. "But Ruth, that's rape," he said quietly, holding in his rage.

"I know, Harry, I know." She sighed heavily, pouring herself another cup from the pot. "We were very happy for the first year or so, but after that, it all began to go downhill."

Harry had sworn to himself he would not ask her this question, but it was out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Did you love him?"

She smiled at him, a tired and washed out smile. "I was wondering how soon it would be before you asked me that."

"I'm sorry, Ruth. I shouldn't have. I take it back."

"It's said, and I'll answer it. After talking to Malcolm, I told myself I'd be honest with you. You deserve that. When I met George, he was very charming and polite – the perfect boyfriend. I moved in with him when the lease ran out on my little house, and the owner wanted to sell it. Moving in with him seemed like the next natural step. I loved him like I'd loved all my boyfriends in the past. He fitted a template. He was charming, employed, good-looking, treated me like a princess, made promises which mostly he kept. He was never you, Harry, but I hadn't expected to find anyone to replace you. No-one ever could, and no-one ever will. George was there, and he was the right person for where I was and how I was feeling at the time. Did I love him? Yes, in a way, I did. By the time I left, I was a little afraid of him. He was showing sides to his personality that I couldn't handle, and he frightened Nico with his tantrums. By the time I was ready to leave Madrid, I was well and truly over him, but I still miss Nico."

"Do you have contact with the boy?"

"No, and I may never see him again. George will never let me see him. He'll want to punish me, and that is the only way he knows how."

Harry sat back in his chair, thinking of his brief encounter with George. He couldn't get his head past George having forced Ruth into having sex with him. Had he known that before he'd met him, he would have killed him when he'd visited Polis. There was still a possibility he could have him killed. There were a couple of people in Malta who owed him favours.

Ruth stifled a yawn.

"You should go to bed, Ruth. It's almost one o'clock."

"What about you?"

"I'll clean up here first, then I'll turn in."

"Harry," she said as she reached the foot of the stairs, "I don't mind if you come to bed with me. I'd quite like the company."

There had been no contact between them, other than a touch of her hand on his shoulder, and his fingers on her arm. He felt they had a long way to go before such intimacy was possible. "Thank you, Ruth. I think I need a more enthusiastic invitation than you quite liking my company."

She held his gaze for a moment. "Are you put off by what I told you about George?"

"Maybe a little, but it's not that. It's …... it's just that I have some kind of romantic notion about us, Ruth. I want to be more to you than just company." _I want you to crave me_, he thought, _to long for me as I have longed for you._ In the meantime, he could wait.

She nodded before she turned to the stairs.

"Goodnight Ruth," Harry said.

"Goodnight," she said from the third step.

Once he heard her bedroom door close, Harry collapsed in a chair and held his head in his hands. It was all too much, and so much was happening so quickly. He wanted to join her in her room more than anything, but they had only just spent a rather uncomfortable two hours together, and a quick comfort shag would not help them to reconnect. He waited another half hour until he was sure she was asleep, and then he climbed the stairs to his own room, stopping briefly outside her door to listen, making sure she was alright. She was under the roof with him, and this time he was determined to protect her.

* * *

Their days passed quickly. Ruth had Mondays and Wednesdays working at University of Dundee, a forty-five minute drive away.

"I began working there when I came back to the UK," she told Harry on their walk next morning.

"Which was when?"

"In January of this year."

Harry stopped and turned to look at her. Scarlet, on the end of a lead, pulled up short and whimpered. "You've been back for over nine months?"

"Yes."

"So when I was racing around Europe looking for you, you were back here."

"Harry, it wasn't like that. From Madrid I took a train to Amsterdam, where I knew this guy who could make me a new passport. I didn't want Malcolm to be able to trace me."

"Why not?"

"Because I was tired from running, from living in a bubble, from having no roots. That's one of the reasons I moved in with George. He had a house and a child. He was an instant family. I had a place to be. I belonged."

"But Ruth, you've always belonged -"

"Don't say it Harry. Don't tell me I belonged with you. That couldn't have happened back then, and you know why."

Harry turned again towards the path, and began walking. "I should have gone with you," he said. "It would have solved a lot of problems. We could have settled on the east coast of the US."  
"You in the US? You'd hate it. Surrounded by Americans? You would have been constantly picking fights with our neighbours."

Harry chuckled, knowing there was an element of truth in what she said.

"What's your official name now, then?" he asked.

"Eleanor Everett. My colleagues call me Ellie. Everett is another version of Evershed. My contact in Amsterdam thought it appropriate. I have two mobile phones now. The Nokia is for Ellie, and the Samsung is for Ruth. They have different ringtones. I'm now quite comfortable with my two identities. Malcolm says that the inquiry into Cotterdam will begin in a couple of weeks. It's only a formality now that Oliver Mace is in gaol."

They'd reached a lookout that Harry walked to regularly. From the elevated position it was possible to see the land rolling away in all directions, the patchwork of the farms and fields in different stages of growth and cultivation, and away to the east the slate grey of the North Sea, cold and uninviting. Harry waited until Ruth had sat down on the bench provided before he sat next to her. He left a space of around a foot between them. They sat for some time in silence before either of them spoke.

"I'm sorry I didn't manage the aftermath of Cotterdam better, Ruth. I didn't protect you as I should have."

"Harry, what's done is done, and the past can't be re-lived."

"For a long time after you were gone I was in a state of shock. At the time I couldn't see any other solution than the one we settled upon. I should have gone with you, and to hell with the dangers. I hated thinking of you alone in the world without any of your normal support systems. What I'm trying to say is I'm sorry, Ruth. The solution we chose wasn't a terribly good one."

"Harry, let's not rehash this, okay? I wish I'd never met Mik Maudsley, but I did, and the rest is history. It's history, Harry. Let's leave it there."

Ruth put out her hand and laid it on Harry's thigh. He understood that Ruth was calling a truce, an end to recriminations about the past. He stared at her hand like it was something he'd never seen before, an object of alien origin. He couldn't take his eyes from Ruth's hand resting on his thigh. Very slowly he placed one of his own hands on her hand, lacing his fingers through her own. It was the closest and most intimate act between them in four and a half years. Harry felt the tears spring into his eyes. He couldn't stop them. They rolled down his cheeks in rivulets, symbols of his suppressed pain, his fear that when and if Ruth ever came home, she'd hate him for how she'd thrown her life away to save him.

"Harry," Ruth said, concern in her voice, "what is it? Was it something I said?"

"In a way, yes," he said, the tears still tumbling down his cheeks, and splashing on to his corduroy jacket. "I feel as though I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"There's nothing to forgive, Harry," she said, squeezing the hand she held. "The last four and a half years have been as hard for you as they were for me. I can see that."

Suddenly, Ruth turned her body towards him on the seat, and with her free hand, she brushed her thumb across his cheeks, gathering the tears, and pushing them away. He watched her closely. Then she reached to him and placed her lips on his cheek. Her kiss was soft and gentle, so much so that he almost began weeping all over again.

"Why won't you sleep with me, Harry?" she asked after a time. They were still holding hands, their hands resting on Harry's leg.

He took a big breath and sighed, watching Scarlet as she ran back to join them, her nose close to the ground. "I want to, Ruth, you know that. I've always wanted that." He turned his head to look at her. Ruth noticed the sadness in his eyes, like he'd lost something which he knew he'd never find again. "I want it to happen in the right way, Ruth. Not just because we can, because we need comfort from one another, but because of what we are to one another. I want it to be an act of love, not just an act of release."

Ruth looked away from him and shook her head. "I think you prefer to love me chastely, Harry. I think that you're afraid to have sex with me in case you discover that I'm a normal sexual being, just like other women. I'm not a virgin, Harry. I've been with other men."

"I know that, Ruth." Again he sighed heavily. "I don't even know why it is I'm reluctant. I'm afraid it won't be right, or perhaps you won't enjoy it. I want it to be …..."

"Perfect?"

"Perhaps. I want the timing to be perfect. We'll know when the timing is right for us."

Ruth rose from the seat, her hand still holding Harry's, and together they walked back down the walking path, Scarlet running at their heels.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry found that he missed Ruth terribly when she was at work in Dundee. He hadn't asked her about her work there, figuring that if she wanted to tell him about it, she would. When she was home, Ruth read a lot, prepared for work, marked papers, and walked with him. On inclement days they stayed inside and talked. They had a lot of catching up to do. The third person in the house – awkwardness – was still there, but less noticeable, and as the days passed, awkwardness took up less and less space.

At every opportunity, Harry walked, sometimes with Scarlet, but often without. He'd admitted to himself that Ruth's presence in the house, in his life, was stirring something within him which had laid largely dormant since she'd left to go into exile. During the years she'd been in exile, his love for her had had to enter the realm of his imagination. Ruth had already mentioned that he loved her chastely, and in a way she was right. In the week or so she'd been in Scotland with him, his physical feelings for her had once again surfaced, and he was having difficulty dealing with this. The easy answer would have been for him to join her in her bed, but his instincts told him they were not quite ready for that. In the meantime, he was living in close proximity to the woman who stirred these feelings in him, and so regular walking became his substitute for sex. Were he a younger man, he'd probably visit the pub regularly and pick fights with other men.

* * *

Two weeks after Ruth arrived, on the Monday night after she arrived home from work, Ruth suggested they go to the pub for a meal. Harry was glad of the distraction. The night was cold, foggy, and with steady drizzle, so they drove the short distance to the village pub, surprised to find the pub carpark almost full. They entered the bistro to find it noisy and filled with people, music playing in the background.

"If this is what it's like Monday night, I'd hate to be here of a Friday," Ruth commented, as Harry led her to a table for two at the back of the room.

"Friday's tend to be quiet, since a lot of the locals go to Montrose – for the karaoke, I believe - which is why I usually eat here of a Friday."

"But you didn't eat here last Friday."

"That's because you cooked chicken parmigiana, Ruth. Why would I want to eat here when I can share a meal like that with you?"

"Perhaps we should have stayed in tonight, then," she said quietly, placing her hand on his.

"Do you want to stay here …... or shall we go home?" His words were equally as quiet, spoken only for her.

"We're here, now, so... what would you like? It's my treat."

"No, Ruth, you don't have to do that."

"But I want to. What would you like?" Ruth was already on her feet, ready to cross to the bar to order. "I'm having the fish."

"Then I'll have the steak," he said, resigned to Ruth buying their meals.

After they'd finished eating, they noticed a few couples shuffling around the dance floor. The music playing through the PA system was country rock – The Eagles, The Byrds, Johnny Cash, The Band – and while some sang along, others danced. The mood in the room was more Saturday night than Monday, and smiles could be seen on the faces of most. Even Harry was tapping is foot in time to the music, and had reached his hand across the table to cover Ruth's hand. In that moment, they were the most relaxed they'd been in the whole seventeen days she'd been with him.

"Let's dance, Harry," Ruth suggested, realising at last that Harry was never going to ask her.

"You want to dance with _me_?"

"Yes, you. Come on, it's not the tango."

"Now, the tango I can do. This foot shuffle, I'm not so sure about."

Ruth led him by the hand to the dance floor, where she waited for him to put his arm around her and pull her close. He held her away from his body, but she enjoyed the warmth of his hand on her back, and the way he'd wrapped his other hand around hers and held it against his chest. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder, but suspected that would make him uncomfortable, so she resisted the urge. By the time the second song began, Harry's arm had moved further around her, pulling her against him, and his cheek rested against hers. She closed her eyes, and breathed out heavily, allowing all the tension of the past couple of weeks to leave her body.

Harry knew he was taking a risk by dancing so close to Ruth, pressing his body against hers so that her soft breasts rested against his chest, and he could feel every breath she took. He was exhibiting every ounce of self control he possessed to not begin undressing her on the dance floor in front of everyone. His body was displaying the early stages of excitement, and he knew she'd be able to feel it. Deciding that a public place such as this was not the best place for this to be happening, he slowly drew away from her. He looked down at her, and saw the confusion in her face, just as a man loomed beside them and tapped Harry on the shoulder. He turned, irritated, to see a thirty-something man with a full head of floppy brown hair standing far too close to the two of them.

"I'm cutting in, mate," he said, in what Harry swore was a Geordie accent. Were there no Scottish people left living in Scotland?

"Sorry – _mate_ – she's with me," Harry said, his words heavily laced with sarcasm.

When the Newcastle man grabbed Harry's jacket collar, Ruth intervened.

"Harry, it's alright, I'll deal with this. Go and sit down. I'll join you in a minute. I know him," she said, her eyes showing Harry that arguing would be pointless.

Very reluctantly, Harry went back to their table. He nursed his drink while he watched Ruth dance with Floppy Brown Hair. They seemed deep in conversation, and if Harry's instincts served him well, Ruth was not happy being with the interloper. Once or twice, Harry thought of cutting in and rescuing Ruth, but he knew she wouldn't appreciate it. He finished his drink, and went to the bar and ordered another for himself and for Ruth. On his way back to their table with the drinks, he searched the dance floor, but couldn't see any sign of Ruth. He felt the beginnings of panic – not a panic of jealousy, but of fear for her safety.

Harry was half way across the room, heading for the door, when Clive Simper (husband of Harriet) intercepted, his hand on Harry's arm.

"I think you need to get out there, Harry," he said. "Your lady needs you."

Harry needed no further encouragement. In a few strides he was at the door, and then through it. He heard them before he saw them. They were standing under an awning, out of the drizzling rain, and Ruth was shouting something at Floppy Brown Hair, at the same time she was poking him in the chest with her finger.

"I don't need you," she was saying, "to turn up here like some kind of Neanderthal, staking a claim on me. You have no right to be doing this. I'm with someone else now."

When Floppy Brown Hair grasped Ruth by her upper arms, Harry stepped in.

"I think she's said all she has to say – _mate_. Now, clear off."

"You and who else?" the man said, not nearly so cockily as he had earlier.

"Me and most of the men in the bistro. Now – bugger off."

Harry put a hand on the man's shoulder, and he let Ruth go, so that she could accompany Harry back inside.

"I can fight my own battles, you know, Harry," she said as they stepped through the doorway and into a cacophony of Creedence Clearwater Revival, and the voices of patrons in the bistro as they sang along to _Bad Moon Rising_.

"I think it's time we went home," Ruth suggested.

Within minutes, they were driving out of the pub carpark and up the hill to home. Since they'd left the pub, neither had spoken.

"I'll make some tea, Harry," she said as they stepped inside. "We need to talk."

They sat on opposite sides of the table, waiting for the tea to steep in the pot. Harry's mind was in turmoil, creating all kinds of scenarios, most of which he didn't want to think about. Either way, it seemed that Ruth and the man from Newcastle had once been something to one another. Ruth poured their tea, and added milk to both, and then three sugars to her own cup, and two to Harry's. They stirred their tea, and only then was Ruth ready to talk.

"I met …... Neil …... soon after I moved to Dundee. He was a graduate student in my language history class. It's policy for staff and students to not fraternise, but Neil pursued me right from the start. I suppose I found his attention flattering, I don't know. At the time I put it down to loneliness. I was back in the UK – my home – but in a city where I knew no-one. Neil and I didn't really have a relationship as such. After all, I'd been in a sort-of-relationship with you, and there'd been more unexpressed passion between us than most people experience in a lifetime. And I'd lived with George for almost a year and a half, so I knew what a relationship looked like. Neil …... I have no idea what it was with him. He seemed obsessed with me, so I should have known better than to sleep with him. It only happened twice, and then I realised I'd opened a Pandora's box of all his insecurities. He said he loved me, even though we'd only known one another a few weeks. When I told him I didn't want to socialise with him any more, he threatened to kill himself. I didn't waver from that. Anyway, he dropped out of classes, and last I knew he'd gone back to Newcastle. Until tonight. I'm sorry, Harry. Trouble seems to follow me."

Harry said nothing. He was circling the rim of his cup with his finger.

"Harry, are you mad at me?"

His eyes shot upwards, and he looked at her. "Of course not, Ruth. You're not the reason this guy followed you here, but we need to keep all the doors and windows locked just in case he saw us drive home. Darling, he's sick, and you couldn't have known that."

"You're too good to me, Harry."

"Not at all. If I told you all my little secrets from the past, we'd be sitting here until Christmas."

"I know it's none of my business, but did you meet anyone while I was in exile? It was four years, after all."

"No. I never stopped loving you, Ruth. Since I knew I loved you, I've not even looked at another woman in that way. Ironically, on the same night you turned up here, I'd been attending a dinner party where one of the woman put her hand on me and suggested we have a meaningless shag. I declined her offer."

"I don't think such self control is good for you, Harry."

"Maybe not, but it's the way I am. When I love someone, it means something to me."

"Speaking of love," Ruth said, standing up, "I have something for you. Wait there."

She ran upstairs to her bedroom, and brought back a small package, gift-wrapped in dark purple paper and gold ribbon.

"Happy birthday, Harry," she said, handing him the gift, and kissing him lightly on the mouth.

"Christ, I had no idea. I'd lost track of the days. Is that why we went out tonight?"

"Yes, and that's why I had to pay. It was part of my birthday gift to you. Open it."

So Harry removed the paper carefully, and took out the book of ancient Mediterranean poetry.

"Thank you, Ruth," he said. "Thank you for remembering, and thank you for this gift …... and thank you for being here …... with me."

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I've marked a page. Read it to me."

He turned to the page she'd marked with a large, heart-shaped bookmark, and he read aloud to her.

"_Don't ask what will happen tomorrow._

_Whatever the sum of days given to you,_

_Think of it as a treasure,_

_And when you are young,_

_Never say no to dancing and sweet desire._

Ruth, that is such a beautiful sentiment. I'll treasure this. _`dancing and sweet desire'_ …. we've taken care of the dancing bit."

He stood up and walked around to her and kissed her on the lips. It was a tender kiss, without passion, but heavy with promise.

"We're still considered young, Harry," she said, looking into his hazel eyes.

"I know we are."

He went back to his own chair, and flicked through the book, occasionally stopping to read a few lines. "These ancient Mediterranean people were hot, Ruth. No wonder they bred so prolifically."

"I'd thought you'd enjoy the X-rated poems," she said with a smile.

They finished their tea, and citing a long day and resultant tiredness, Ruth retired to bed. Harry had almost expected her to once again invite him to join her, and had she, he would have said yes. There had been a change in both of them during the evening – the dancing, the incident with Neil, her sharing with him the story of Neil, her tender gift to him for his birthday – it had all served to move them closer together. Besides, he ached for her, and he didn't know for how much longer he could hold in his intense desire for her. After he'd kissed her on the mouth, and while he was looking through the book she'd given him, every cell in his body had been screaming to him to take her upstairs to his bedroom.

Like every night since Ruth had been with him in this house, he hesitated outside her closed door, wondering whether she was asleep, and if she desired him as much as he did her. In his bedroom, he took off all his clothes, and dressed for bed in a t-shirt and track pants. Despite his need for Ruth – or perhaps because of it – he tumbled into bed and was asleep within minutes.

Since he'd retired, and especially since he'd moved to Scotland, Harry had slept deeply, and without waking. Until this night. When he awoke suddenly, he noticed two things – one was that it was still nighttime, and the other was that there was someone in his bed with him.

* * *

_**A/N: Poem extract from `Odes 1.9', by Horace. (65 BC – 8 BC)**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Thank you all for reading, and for the reviews. This chapter is quite smutty (I know you'll not complain, but just warning all the same.) Kudos owns the characters …... I like to let them play.**_

* * *

Harry woke to feel Ruth behind him in the bed. Her scent wafted over and around him as she breathed easily in sleep. Her chest was against his back, and her arm was draped over his waist. How many times had he, in his imagination, conjured a scene such as this? He tried to keep his breathing steady as he savoured this moment …... her soft breasts, unencumbered by a bra, pressing deliciously into the middle of his back as she breathed in, her bare feet hooked around his ankles, an intimate knot of flesh and bones, her knees tucked behind and beside his own knees. It was almost exactly as he'd imagined it.

After a few minutes of this physical and emotional torture, he could tolerate the situation no longer. He wanted to see her face. He _needed_ to turn to face her. He gently lifted her arm from his waist, and turned as carefully as he could until he was facing her sleeping form, their bodies close, but not touching. Then he lay her arm across him so that her hand once again fell on his waist. He dearly wanted to put his arms around her, and pull her against him, but he was fully erect, and he didn't want to push things too far too soon, and nor did he want to come across to her as being too desperate. He lay there, barely breathing, watching her sleep. He lost track of time, and soon closed his eyes, not sleeping, for he was too aroused for sleep, but to allow his imagination to take him wherever it would.

After a time, he thought he felt her hands on him, on his waist, and then on the waist band of his track pants. He was sure he felt her fingers brush his erection through his pants, and he felt a shudder pass through his body at that thought. He even thought he felt her lips touching his throat, but he knew it was just his imagination in overdrive. Ruth would never be that bold. Then he must have imagined her hands slipping his track pants down to below his knees, because he felt the friction of the duvet against his raw and sensitive skin, the skin no hands other than his had touched in such a long time. Then he thought her hands were caressing his outer thighs, and one hand even ventured to his buttock, which she squeezed as she pulled his body towards hers. He was sure he'd felt that, as his erection rested against some part of her, possibly her thigh. Then he was sure he felt the bed move beneath him as she removed her clothing, her pyjama pants first, and then she began opening the buttons on her top with one hand, while with her other she took his hand, and placed it inside her top, on one of her breasts. His fingers gently massaged her soft flesh while he circled her nipple as it hardened under the pad of his thumb, and it was only then that he opened his eyes, admitting that this was no longer his imagination at work. Ruth was awake, watching him, naked beside him in bed, with one hand under his t shirt, and with the other she was teasing his erection, running a thumb the length of it and back, so that his breath caught in his throat. _Breathe in,_ he had to tell himself ... _yes, but wouldn't this be a wonderful way to die?_

Harry was no longer capable of forming words. What was being played out in this bed in Malcolm's house in Scotland was the very dream he had been dreaming for at least a half a decade. His only concern in that moment was that he'd climax before anything else happened between them, before he'd had a chance to feel the sweetness of her flesh in spasm as it grasped his own flesh. He tore off his t-shirt so that she could place her lips against his skin, run her tongue along his scars. He gasped as Ruth lifted her leg over him, so that her foot rested against his buttocks. Slowly she pushed her body against him, guiding him with her hand until the tip of his erection was resting against her wetness, her warm centre, the core of her femininity. As he felt his flesh meet her moist outer folds, he groaned with the eroticism of the moment, and the anticipation of what was surely to soon follow. Even more than he needed to breathe in after having breathed out, he needed to be inside her. He was about to push into her when she put her mouth against his, and their lips met in a warm and deep and tongue-writhing kiss, their first ever kiss of passion. Harry was lost inside her mouth, but more than that he needed to be inside her warm centre. Each time he moved to push inside her, she moved away ever so slightly, thwarting his moves of stealth.

"_Please_, Ruth," he managed to say at last, and she grasped his buttocks and pulled him into her until he was buried completely and deeply inside her. Were he to have died right then, he would have died happy. He held himself there, deeply inside the woman he had loved and longed for for so many years, until she began to set the rhythm with the movement of her own pelvis. She moved slowly at first, her hands on his waist, while one of his hands held her buttocks, and the other cradled her head. Her eyes on his were too much for him, so he closed his, and let himself drift back into that place in his imagination where this event usually took place.

"Harry, open your eyes," she said. "I need you here with me."

So he opened his eyes, and allowed himself to be with her as she needed him to be. It was almost too much, but it was worth it.

They'd been moving slowly and carefully. Ruth was aware of how close he'd been when he'd entered her, so she allowed him to settle down and enjoy himself before she began to push herself against him harder and faster. Barely able to hold on, Harry took up her movement and thrust into her again and again. It was only when he felt her muscles clench around him, and heard her gasp her orgasm that he allowed himself to completely let go. He buried himself inside her so deeply that he was sure he'd never come out again. He shuddered his orgasm while inside her, and held himself there, never wanting to leave her welcoming warmth. He slid both his arms around her and held her against him. They were one, but then again, they always had been. They slept, still joined.

* * *

When again Harry's eyes opened, a grey daylight was trying to sneak its way through the curtains. During the night, his and Ruth's bodies had separated, and they lay together, side by side in his bed. She still slept, her hair dark against the pillow, her beautiful eyes closed, her face at peace, her breathing slow and steady. He carefully lifted the duvet to cover her breasts. He desperately longed to kiss her, but he also didn't wish to wake her. A glance at his bedside digital clock showed him that it was 7:42 am. Harry stretched his body under the duvet, and everything felt good – no aches or pains, no unwanted arousal, no stiff joints. He'd forgotten how good sex was for his body. He very carefully got out of bed, and grabbing his bathrobe, left the room and closed the door behind him. It would be his turn to cook breakfast.

He'd only just placed a few rashers of bacon in the frypan when he felt two arms encircle his waist, and two warm breasts nestle into his back.

"Good morning, lover," she said, kissing his back between his shoulder blades.

He put down the spatula, and turned in her arms, wrapping his own arms around her. He pulled her close to him and just held her there.

"I love you so much," he said into her hair.

"And I love you, Harry. I'd pushed my love for you to the back of my mind . It was easier that way."

"Thank you for last night," he continued. "It was …..."

"Eminently memorable." Ruth pulled a little away from him so that she could look at him. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten what it is women and men do together."

"I hadn't forgotten, Ruth, I just didn't want to make a move until the timing was right."

"I could tell when we danced together last night that you needed …... _something_ to happen, and to happen soon."

Harry smiled at her, and reached down to kiss her. It was a long and slow kiss, sensual and deep. They broke apart when the bacon began spitting in the frypan.

Over breakfast they spoke little, but their eyes continued to talk. He'd glance up at her just as she'd glance down at her food, and when she glanced up again, he was still watching her, his eyes filled with love and wonder.

"Do you think perhaps we could dispense with the second bedroom?" she said at last, as he poured her a cup of tea. Their eyes met over the teapot.

"I think that might be necessary from now on," Harry replied. "After all, Malcolm wouldn't appreciate us wearing out the carpet between the two bedrooms."

"Perhaps we should invite him to stay for a weekend," Ruth suggested, "as thanks for bringing us together."

"Perhaps," he agreed, "but not this weekend."

"Or the one after."

"Or the one after that."

They smiled at one another, a secret, lovers' smile.

"What about New Year?" Ruth suggested. "That's two months away. Surely by then we would have …..."

"What if we haven't? What if we're still …... until this time next year?"

"I've no doubt we'll still be this hungry for one another this time next year. Malcolm may have to wait." She smiled across at him, love for him in her eyes. "You know, I'd forgotten all the little things I loved about you. I just hadn't forgotten that I love you."

Harry put down his cup, and walked around the table to her side. With one hand on the table, and the other on the back of her chair, he reached down and kissed her. This time his kiss was deep and grasping and needy, and he eased his tongue into her mouth, searching for hers. He lifted his hand from the table, and ran the tips of his fingers from her chin, down her throat to her neck. He then slipped his hand under her bathrobe, as he reached for her breast, and with his thumb and forefinger, he pinched her nipple. That same hand then undid the tie which held her bathrobe together, and as it slid slowly down her body, exploring her skin all the way, Ruth leaned back in her chair and parted her legs, opening herself to him. Soon she felt his fingers inside her, plunging into her while his thumb vibrated across her clit. She gasped into his mouth as she came. After a while, after her body had settled, and after he'd stopped kissing her, she stood up and allowed her bathrobe to slide off her shoulders to the floor. She stepped close to him, opening his bathrobe with the fingers of one hand, and then pushed her naked body against him. She thrust her stomach against his hardness, grinding herself against him as her lips explored his chest. She wanted to touch him with her hand, but she knew he would be able to take only so much. He kissed her again, and then groaned into her mouth as she massaged her body across his erection.

"Upstairs?" Ruth suggested, pulling away from the kiss.

"Too late …," he managed to say. "Table."

He pulled off his bathrobe and placed it over the end of the table as a blanket, pushing aside any cups and plates from which they'd eaten breakfast. He then lifted Ruth on to the bathrobe, and lifted her legs until she wrapped them around him. As she sat there, her legs around Harry's body, she'd been cupping his scrotum in her hand and gently rolling his balls between her fingers. Again he slipped his fingers into her as he kissed her, and after his fingers slipped out of her, his hardness slid in. Ruth grasped his body with her heels, and her hands scraped across his back as he made love to her, sliding into her again and again. When she came, he kept going until he reached his shattering climax, and they both fell against the table – she falling backwards, and he on top of her, holding himself above her on his forearms. They lay that way for some time, their breath coming in gasps, sweat pouring off them and pooling between them.

Ruth laughed gently. "God, Harry, had I known you were this good, I would have come home years ago."

"I can't get enough of you. I think I might die while I'm inside you, and …. and if I do …..."

"Don't you dare, Harry. We have years left to enjoy each other in every way there is."

"Christ, I'm tired," he said into her shoulder.

"Let's have a shower together, and then we can go back to bed."

"Sounds good."

They showered, only touching one another with gentle hands and mouths, not wanting to hurt or arouse. When they were dry, they crawled into bed together, still naked, and slept until lunchtime.

* * *

The rhythm of their days had changed in an instant. The more they made love, the less Harry walked, and the more bewildered Scarlet became.

"It's too cold outside, Scarlet," he said to her one morning, when what he really meant was: _I've just made love to Ruth, and with any luck we'll be doing it again tonight after she gets home from work, so I'm conserving my energy._

On the days Ruth wasn't working, or preparing to work, she and Harry spent almost all their time in bed. They talked for hours at a time. The years they'd been apart had left gaps in their knowledge of one another. Whilst Ruth had shared with him some of the bad times with George, there had been good times also, and she needed to let Harry know that her time in Cyprus had mostly been happy. Similarly, Harry needed to tell Ruth about the deaths of Adam, Zaf, Jo and Ros. Ruth had known, of course. Malcolm had told her, but she hadn't known the details, the context of each of the deaths. Ruth was at last able to cry for the loss of her colleagues, people who had been more than colleagues, people whom she had loved like family. Each one of them held a place in her heart just as family members do. Harry held her close to him as she wept, and she was so thankful that his life had at least been spared.


	6. Chapter 6

One evening in early December, as they were preparing for bed, Ruth lay under the duvet watching Harry undressing.

"Don't ...," he said, mildly embarrassed by her interest in his body.

"I love watching you getting undressed. It's like watching someone opening a beautiful Christmas gift."

"That analogy is somewhat over the top, Ruth, and `beautiful' is an adjective I am certain was never intended to describe any part of me," he said as he removed his undershirt.

"I beg to differ. I think you are without doubt the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on."

Harry slid into bed next to her, wearing only his trunks. He held back from her, looking at her quizzically as he propped his head on his hand, his elbow on the pillow. "Having made that sweeping statement, you now have to qualify it."

"That's easy. You ooze sex appeal, Harry, you must know that."

"No, I didn't. I find that women in general tend to not fall all over me."

"That's because you put them off with your aloofness and your gruffness, which I happen to know is a sign that you are protecting yourself from others seeing how gentle you are."

"Go on."

"Your body is …... exquisite -"

"My body is decrepit at best."

"I love your body. You may have noticed I can't get enough of it. It's a beautiful body, Harry, despite all the abuse you've allowed it to endure. I worship every inch of your body."

He lifted his eyebrow at her, but there was a small smile forming on his lips.

"Oh, Harry, you're such a _man_," Ruth said, grasping his upper arm and shaking him. "How can I tell you what it is I love about you? It's not just about your body – which I adore – but it's the whole package."

"So, it's my package you love -" he said, smirking.

"_Harry_! What I'm trying to tell you goes beyond sex. I do love your package, as it happens, but I thought that would be obvious to you." She smiled at him, and touched the end of his nose with her finger. As he grasped her hand in his and began tenderly kissing each of her fingertips, she continued in a more serious vein. "I love the man you are, the core of you, and everything else follows. I haven't yet met a part of you I don't love with all my heart."

Harry suddenly became serious. "There's a lot about me you don't know, Ruth. There are so many things I did when I was young. I'm sure you would find it hard to love me were you to know about them."

"I know you now, and that's all I care about. What you did when you were 30 or 40 doesn't hold a lot of interest for me. I know the job you did, and what it required of you. But what is more important, I know who you are – _here_." Ruth placed her hand on Harry's heart, and he covered her hand with his own.

"You own it, you know. My heart. It belongs to you. That will never change. Ever."

Ruth rolled over and pushed him on to his back until she was almost lying on top of him. She kissed his lips with a soft kiss. "See what I mean? You're a gentle man, Harry, and you think gentle things. All that spy stuff was what you did as a younger man, but you did it for the right reasons. There will be other ways you can contribute."

Harry's face became suddenly serious. "I've been thinking a lot about that on the days you go off to work. I'm still young enough to need to be useful in some way. I'm not technically minded like Malcolm, so I can't develop software. I feel that I need something to do." He responded to Ruth's knowing smile with one of his own, and he reached towards her and kissed her deeply. "Something other than making love to you. As enjoyable as that is, and as much as I'd like to, I can't spend eight hours a day doing it. I need a new purpose in my life."

Harry slid his arms around Ruth to hold her to him securely. "Perhaps there's something we could do together," he said, "other than endless hours of lovemaking, of course. We need something which won't impinge on our personal life …... now that we actually have a personal life."

"I have no intention of going back to MI-5," Ruth said adamantly.

"Good. I was hoping you'd feel that way."

"After all, it was being in MI-5 that split us up for over four years. I don't want to endanger what we have, Harry. Malcolm says we can live here for as long as we like. He's happy to have people he trusts living here, so we're not under any pressure to leave any time soon."

"You've been in touch with Malcolm?"

"Yes, I thought I told you." Harry's shake of the head told her she hadn't told him. "The enquiry is over, and my name's been cleared. I was sure I told you this ….."

"If you told me during sex, then I'd never have remembered."

"Harry, why would I talk to you about a call from Malcolm during sex?"

"To add interest? To arouse me?"

Ruth kissed him quickly, and then gently bit his chin. She lifted her head away from him, smiling. "As if you require any help with arousal." She kissed him again, this time more slowly, and with meaning. "I was sure I'd told you." Ruth rolled away from him on to her back, and noticing the look of disappointment on Harry's face, turned slightly so that she faced him. "Read me some more of that poetry."

"To get you in the mood?"

"No, I just like to hear you reading it. I feel safe when I hear your voice."

Harry reached across to her and touched her lips lightly with his own. He stayed above her for a moment, drinking her in with his eyes, before he rolled back on to his side and took the book of poetry from his bedside table, and his reading glasses, which he perched on his nose. "I think you'll like this one," he said.

_Let it always be like this,_

_Just like this,_

_A never-ending festival,_

_Living with you, mouth to mouth,_

_Nothing to do, Nothing to be ashamed of._

_In this there is, there has been,_

_And there will be,_

_For a long time to come,_

_Nothing but delight,_

_Never diminishing,_

_Always just beginning._"

"That was beautiful. Thank you, Harry."

"That was for you, but this one is for us.

_When you have found the places where a woman loves to be touched,_

_Don't let shyness stop you from touching them._

_You will see her eyes flickering with sparks of fire,_

_Just as the sun sometimes gleams on clear water._

_Next comes the moans and murmurs,_

_Sweet sighs and words just right for the games of love._

_But don't you race past her with fuller sail,_

_Nor let her get ahead of the course you've set,_

_But both shall accelerate to the winning post at the same time._

_And the fulfilment of desire is when_

_The man and woman lie overcome together_."

"I love that one. Ovid."

"It is." Harry reached across to her and kissed her, slowly and lovingly. He lifted his face from hers, and turned to put the book and his glasses back on the bedside table. When he turned back to her, she was brushing tears from her cheek. "It seems Ovid knew a thing or two about the art of lovemaking," he added.

Ruth then turned on her side to face him, her face open, her eyes still glistening with tears, and he pulled her towards him, enveloping her in his arms, holding her close to him.

"Turn off the light, Harry," she said. "I want to sleep like this."

So he did, and they did.

* * *

_Christmas morning_:

"This is perfect, Harry. It's Christmas, we're in Scotland, the heating is on, there's snow, and I have you by my side."

"You have me to cook you breakfast, and three snowflakes is hardly snow, Ruth."

"There's more than three, and you know it. I've counted at least twenty snowflakes in the last few minutes alone."

"It's trying to snow. That isn't the same as snowing." Harry sat down across from her, and tucked into his sausages and eggs.

"It's alright, Harry. We can still join the locals later for a drink at the pub."

"I'm not even thinking about that. I have you, and we're alone in this beautiful house. Why would I care about having a drink with our neighbours?"

"When do you want your Christmas gift?"

"I thought I'd already had it," he replied, with a small smile that could only be described as a smirk.

"No, Harry. That was what we do most mornings, although …... I have to admit that this morning was especially …..."

"Passionate?"

"Yes, passionate. You still haven't told me when you want your Christmas gift."

"It depends on how big it is, Ruth."

"It's very small. But it's also big."

"Now I'm intrigued. Let's finish eating first."

So they finished breakfast, and then sat on the floor side by side, their backs against the sofa, their feet close to the fire.

"This is our first proper Christmas together," Harry pointed out, "so Merry Christmas, Ruth." He leaned across to kiss her on the cheek, as he handed her a small, gift-wrapped parcel.

Ruth beamed. "It looks lovely, Harry, thank you." She tore off the ribbon and the paper, and inside found two jewellery boxes, one small, and one not-so-small. She looked up at Harry anxiously. "It's not …..."

"Open it," he said. "I think you'll like it."

So she opened firstly the small box, and in it was a gold signet ring with two entwined hearts, and on one heart was engraved the letter `H', and on the other the letter `R'.

"Oh Harry, that's so beautiful," Ruth said, slipping the ring on to the third finger of her right hand, then holding her hand out to admire it.

She then opened the other jewellery box – larger and elongated – to find a matching gold necklace, with a heart-shaped locket. Ruth looked more closely at the intricate engraving on the outside of the locket, turning it in all directions. "It's our initials, but they're entwined with one another," she said quietly. "I hadn't known you were so romantic, Harry. Thank you." She handed it to him for him to open the clasp, and put around her neck. When he'd done that, and kissed her neck where the clasp fell against her skin, she reached for him, and drawing his face close to her, kissed him slowly and deeply.

"Mmm," he said, coming up for air, and putting his fingers against his lips where Ruth had kissed him, "I used to rather dislike Christmas, but now I think I rather like it."

"Good, because this is from me, with all my love," Ruth said, handing him a large gold envelope with his name written on the outside.

"I know what this is, Ruth. It's tickets to something. You've been talking to Malcolm behind my back, and he's told you that -"

"Shutup and open it, Harry. And Malcolm isn't exclusively your friend. He's mine as well, but no, I didn't discuss this with him."

Harry opened the envelope, and peered inside. Inside were several pieces of paper, which he drew from the envelope. "Eurail passes," he said. "We're travelling by train in Europe? In ….. April and May?" He looked at Ruth, and she nodded, and smirked. "But, Ruth, your teaching contract doesn't finish until -"

"It's finished. Carol Dean wants to come back. Something about a broken marriage, and needing to earn a living. They broke my contract, and paid me out. I thought we could -"

"Air tickets, too. Ruth, we're going on …... aren't we? Tell me …..."

"The Grand Tour, Harry. If we don't do it soon, we never will."

"Darling, thank you." He kissed her gently and slowly. "This is the best Christmas I've had since I was seven."

"What happened when you were seven?"

"My parents gave me a bike. I thought I was the luckiest kid in the street. Now, I'm the luckiest man in the world."

They kissed some more, and when he put his hands under her pyjama top, and his lips began to wander down her neck, she pulled away.

"You have two phone calls to make, Harry. No more Christmas cheer of the bedroom variety until you ring your children."

Ruth cleaned up their breakfast things while Harry rang Catherine and Graham.

* * *

_The following July – Harry's house, London:_

"You didn't have to bring back gifts, Ruth."

"But when I saw that scarf, I thought of you, Catherine, and I hope Graham likes what Harry bought for him."

Catherine held the scarf against her neck while she looked at Ruth with a strange expression in her eyes. "Can I ask you something?"

"Not before we tell you our news," Harry said, as he entered the room, and stood behind Ruth, putting his arms around her waist.

"You are, aren't you?" Catherine said, her eyes gleaming. "When are you due?"

"Christ, Catherine, that was _our_ news. We wanted to tell you ourselves." Harry looked genuinely disappointed, and even annoyed. "How could you possibly have known? We've told no-one at all."

"Sorry. It's just that I've noticed the tender looks you've been exchanging, and I'm sure I can see a baby bump."

"Baby bump! Bloody hell, does the whole world examine every newly married woman in search of a baby bump?"

"_Yes_!" said Ruth and Catherine in unison. Then Catherine turned to Ruth and hugged her, and then kissed Harry on the cheek. He grabbed her in a bear-hug.

"Congratulations, both of you. I look forward to having a little brother or sister."

"Our baby was conceived on Ruth's birthday," Harry added.

"Darling, we don't know that for sure, and I'm sure Catherine doesn't need any unnecessary information to be taking away with her."

"You asked when it was due, Catherine, and I'm answering your question by telling you when it was conceived."

"Thanks, Dad, but I'm with Ruth. TMI."

"TMI?"

"_Too much information_," Catherine and Ruth said together, both laughing.

"Changing the subject entirely," Harry said, standing next to Ruth, and slipping his arm around her. "It's about this house. Now that we've bought a house in rural Scotland -"

"In the middle of the bloody tundra, a million miles from civilisation as we know it," murmured Catherine.

"It's only a half hour's drive from Dundee, and ten minutes from Malcolm Wynn-Jones, and yes, it gets cold there occasionally," Harry continued. "Now that Scotland is to be our permanent address – for now, at least - we don't need this house, but I'm not yet ready to sell it. I thought it can be a town house for when you visit London, Catherine. Ruth and I will still use it whenever we come to London. I'm going to offer it to Graham while he's at university. It will save him paying rent. What do you think?"

"I'm sure he'll accept your offer, Dad."

"I hope he will," Harry replied. "Ruth and I would like him to live here."

"You need to ask him yourself, Dad."

"I know, Catherine. I know."

* * *

_**A/N: The first poem is of unknown origin, but is usually attributed to Petronius. The second is from Ovid, Ars Amatoria II**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:**** This is the final chapter of this fic. Thanks so much for your reviews, and I hope you enjoyed.**_

* * *

_The following February – Harry's & Ruth's house, Scotland – the early hours of the morning:_

Harry awoke suddenly, and finding the other side of the bed empty, he got out of bed and put on his bathrobe. With under-floor heating, slippers were not necessary, even in the most bitter of Scottish winters. He could never sleep properly without Ruth beside him, her calm infusing his body even during sleep. He quietly entered the small bedroom next to theirs, the room where their one-month-old daughter slept. Sitting in the comfy chair by the window, her legs curled under her, was his wife. He padded over to the crib to gaze at the sleeping form of their baby daughter, her blond, curly hair nestling gossamer-like against her scalp. He smiled at her, and then quietly approached the chair where Ruth sat. He watched her in repose, his heart swelling with love for her, and then he reached down to kiss her neck. She turned to him, surprise in her eyes.

"I didn't hear you come in," she said.

He settled himself on the carpet where her feet would normally be, his head leaning back against the arm of the chair. "We were looking for something we could do together to contribute, to feel useful, and I think we've found it, Ruth."

"I've been thinking," Ruth said, running her fingers through Harry's hair. He rested his cheek against her knees, revelling in her touch. "There's something I hadn't told you, and I think the time is now right. Now we have Ruby, I think I should share this with you."

"Only if you want to," Harry replied. He felt a slight constricting in the pit of his stomach, but he trusted Ruth, and knew he had no real cause for fear.

"When I was in Cyprus, when I was living with George, after around six months of us living together, he decided it was time for us to try for a baby. I wasn't keen on the idea. I'd previously believed that if I ever had a child, it would be with you. I didn't really want to have a child with George, but at the time I felt I had no alternative other than to go along with it. I think I became caught up in his enthusiasm."

Ruth had rested her hand on Harry's shoulder, and he rested his own hand on hers.

"We tried for around seven months, and nothing happened. I was so relieved, and that was when George first showed me his other personality, the one which didn't appreciate not getting what he wanted. He became nasty and sarcastic - not all the time, just when another month went by and we hadn't conceived. It was when he showed that side of him that I went back on the pill, but I didn't tell him. He would have been furious. Around three weeks before I left Cyprus, I visited a fortune teller in a nearby village. She had a reputation for being able to foretell when a woman would conceive, and how many children she would have. I didn't tell George about it; being a doctor, he would have considered it a lot of hocus pocus. It was also not the sort of thing I've been interested in; after all, it's not logical in any way. This woman told me that there was a little girl waiting to be born to me …..." Ruth felt Harry's hand grasp her own hand tighter, "... and she said my daughter would not be born until I got together with the man whom she needed to be her father. She said my daughter would closely resemble her father, but would have my eyes. I asked her about George, and she said that no, George wasn't the right person to be this little girl's father, and that I'd not be able to get pregnant by him. She then went on to say that I already knew the man who was to be my child's father, and that he lived in another country, and that I would soon be reunited with him. I knew that she was talking about you, Harry. She then went on to describe you in some detail. She said you were older than me, and had an important job, that you were conflicted by your responsibility to your job and your feelings for me, and that ultimately you would be able to prove to me that your love for me was deep and true. She also told me that you would leave your job to be with me. I intuitively knew that what she told me was true. I have no idea how she knew what it was she told me. I paid her double the fee she was asking, and began to plan how to get away from George. Three weeks later, he had a meltdown and asked me to leave. Harry, I thought a lot about that, and tonight when I was feeding Ruby, she seemed to be looking up at me and thanking me. I know that sounds crazy -"

"It's not crazy at all, Ruth. I think it's one of the most sane things I've ever heard." Harry took Ruth's hand from his shoulder, and rested his lips in her palm.

"I was scared to come back to the UK. I was scared that after four years you'd have moved on, found someone else, perhaps even married, then what would happen to that little girl we were meant to have together? That was why I took so long to get back to you, and when I read the ad in The Times Literary Supplement and I contacted Malcolm, I was still afraid."

"God, Ruth, afraid of what? Were you afraid of me?"

"Not really. I think I was afraid to begin again with you, after all the time we took to get close before I had to go away. I thought at that rate, by the time we got to the bedroom stage of things we'd both be too old for children."

"Is that why you offered to share your bed with me when you first arrived at Malcolm's cottage?"

"One of the reasons. The other was that I'd forgotten how damned sexy you are, and that I fancied you rotten."

Harry chuckled quietly, holding her palm against his cheek. "So what you're saying is that it was Ruby who got us together, and that you and I have had little say in the matter."

"It seems that way, yes."

"She's a clever girl, our daughter," he said, almost to himself.

"Well, she has a clever Daddy ….."

"Don't forget sexy, Ruth."

"Ruby has a clever and sexy Daddy, and a ….."

"Brilliant Mummy."

"Don't I get a sexy as well?"

"Ruth, you know you do. I don't wish to traumatise our daughter with all this talk of sexy parents."

"Do you think she's listening, Harry?"

"I've no doubt. She's probably plotting how she can put us both in a retirement home by the time she's twelve, and live comfortably off our fortune."

"But our fortune is each other."

"My wise and beautiful Ruth." He turned to look up at her face, now smiling down at him. "I came in here to ask you to come back to bed. I miss you when you're not lying next to me."

Harry got up from the floor, groaning when one knee didn't immediately straighten. "I hope you still fancy me now I'm beginning to fall apart, Ruth."

"I'll always fancy you. That is one of those unwritten laws of the universe."

Harry put out his hand and helped his wife up from the chair, and after a loving glance into their daughter's cot, hand in hand, they went back to their own room, and to bed.

_Fin_


End file.
